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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556493">Lemon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars'>gutterandthestars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Twelvetide 2020/2021 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, But if you think about it Nickys statement everything happens for a reason is kind of fucked up, But look I love these characters, Gen, Mentions of Andromache, Mentions of Nicolo di Genova, Mentions of Violence, Please imagine a traumatic journey but a hopeful resolution, Revenge, We Do Not Bury Our Immortal Lesbians Here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:41:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Twelvetide Drabbles Challenge 2020/2021 for the prompt 'lemon' for 31st December 2020.</p><p>***</p><p>What happens after Booker finds Quynh in his rooms at the end of the film? Maybe something a little like this.</p><p>***</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Twelvetide 2020/2021 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Twelvetide Drabbles 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lemon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="Body">
  <span>“I see alcohol remains popular,” says Quynh, placing the glass of water on Booker’s crappy kitchenette countertop and gesturing to the empty bottles littering the room. </span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>Booker doesn’t lower his pistol.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>The woman from his nightmares is doing nothing but standing there. She’s not carrying a weapon Booker can see, but he’s not going to fool himself that means she’s unarmed. Her simple presence in his rooms is violence, a confrontation with the horror that was done to her. And he can see that, like Andy, she’s <em>old.</em></span>
</p><p class="Body"><em><span>Nom de dieu de merde</span></em>, thinks Booker. <em>Andy</em>.</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Well,” says Booker, bitterly, pocketing his gun when Quynh makes no move to question him further. “There seems little point in shooting you.”</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>She meets his gaze with a shark’s eyes and reaches out for an empty bottle of crappy brandy he’d meant to discard. She shakes it at him.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Have you any more?” she asks, blithely.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>***</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>Two hours later, and the pair of them are well on their way to death by alcohol poisoning on Booker’s eclectic collection of cheap booze. Quynh’s been no more forthcoming with her agenda, and Booker doesn’t know what to do, so he decides he might as well drink. That’s been his general approach for the last 200 odd years, seems pointless to change it now. Quynh is perched carefully on a chair. He’s slumped up against the kitchen cabinets, his coat abandoned on the floor between them. </span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Try this,” he slurs, “from the land of Nicolò’s birth.” He reaches up and hands over a sloppy shot of limoncello.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Ah, Nico,” sighs Quynh, plucking it from his numb fingers and turning the tiny glass of lemon-coloured liquid this way and that against the fading light. “Tell me, does he still insist that all things happen according to their time? To every thing there is a season? Did he tell you I was meant to spend a half century at the bottom of the sea, according to some pre-ordained destiny?”</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>Booker shrugs, uncomfortably. Truth be told, Nicky’s concept of destiny seems horrific to him. That shit has always made him uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“I see. Still my foolish little brother,” says Quynh with another sigh, correctly interpreting his silence as acknowledgement. “To Nicolò, then,” she says, followed by an ominous click of her tongue. Booker thinks, muzzily, that he should truly be worried now. Quynh toasts the air and downs the lemon liquour. </span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>She pulls a face then smiles broadly.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“That,” says Quynh with wild delight, and a smack of her lips, “is disgusting.” </span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Why’d you think I gave it to you?” asks Booker, and bares his teeth. He feels nothing at all.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>Quynh regards him silently for a moment, wearing the ghost of a smile. She shakes her head as if to clear it. </span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Well,” she says, getting to her feet. “To business.”</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Huh?” mumbles Booker, around his mushy, buzzing tongue.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“Booker, it seems you are determined to destroy this life of yours, and my destruction was complete long ago. Your family and mine are have moved on from the both of us. This was fun, but you and I have work to do.”</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <em>
    <span>Oh god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“I won’t help you hurt them,” says Booker, scrabbling to get to his feet, too slow, too slow.</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>“My dear child,” says Quynh, darting like a fish to draw Booker’s own gun from the pocket of his abandoned coat and levelling it at his forehead. “You won’t have a choice.”</span>
</p><p class="Body">
  <span>The last thing Booker sees before he dies this time are dark, bruised eyes and a sweet smile.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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